God Forbid
by Nyhratak
Summary: "And all at once, there was Sherlock Holmes, in the flesh. Very much alive and aware of where he was and who he had just fooled with his masquerade." After months of assumption that he is dead, Holmes reappears one stormy night on Watson's doorstep, and the good doctor doesn't know how to react. Very twisted - equally AU. SH2 spoilers here.


**A/N: I saw AGoS a couple weeks ago, and this idea has been swimming **_**laps**_** in my head for a while. I haven't read any fics about such an event happening for fear of copying anyone, so you will know if you recognize anything that is similar from others that I have had no previous visual perusing of said works. Depressing things ensue - you have been warned. Please note that this is very AU at the end. Please do be kind. It's a ONESHOT, but I may update if I get more inspiration...maybe.**

**Did I also mention that reviews are my friends? ;) **

**God Forbid**

"Could you pass the salt, Mary?" John Watson asked his wife with quiet politeness, speaking for the first time since they had seated themselves at the table for dinner. Mary gave him a smile and a nod, taking up the salt shaker and placing it in his waiting hand. Watson had barely touched his food, but he thought that perhaps if he sprinkled it with salt, it would provide an allusion that by some means would make it all right.

Mary watched him with a concerned look upon her beautiful face, "John, won't you please eat something?" she did not bar the desperation from becoming evident in her tone, "I worry for your health."

Watson met her gaze and replied, "I _am_ sorry, my dear, but I must confess that I'm not hungry tonight." Or any nights lately, he wanted to add, but held his tongue.

"Oh, John, you mustn't do this to yourself! I know you miss him - "

The figurative pond within his mind froze over. "Please. Don't. I would prefer if he was not directly brought up."

She ignored him and started again, treading precariously on the thin ice, "I know how hard this has been for you, these past months, but everything will get better. I just want to know that you are faring well."

Watson once again bit back an answer that would hurt her, and reached over to cover her hand with his. There were still scars from his former adventures riddling his fingers, but it did not deter Mary. "I am doing well enough. I'm simply not hungry this evening."

If she had any doubts concerning his reaffirmed proclamation, she did not voice them. That made them even, he supposed.

The maid returned and took Watson's untouched plate of food back to the kitchen. "Give what you can to Gladstone, will you Portia?" he called after her. The bulldog - who had previously been sleeping in the corner - perked up and waddled after the maid.

"I do say, John," commented Mary, "that dog eats more than you do."

Watson heaved his shoulders up and down in a shrug, "That is how it's always been. Now you don't have to wonder why he is fat, and I am - "

" - thin as a rail?"

"I was about to say 'fit'."

Despite herself, his wife produced a small smile at his failed attempt at comedy, "Off with you then. Back to your books, you go!" Watson, still feeling the need to be present at the table, went to protest, but she would have none of it. It was all in good humor, however, dark undertones of the situation temporarily forgotten. "Honestly, I couldn't bear the thought of keeping you away from them for too long."

He touched her hand again affectionately and sighed, "I don't know what I would do without you, darling. I truly do not know."

That was all he said. That was all that _needed_ to be said. Mary watched him until his figure had left the room, then she finished the food on her plate in silence.

Watson's eyes strayed listlessly towards the ornate grandfather clock in the corner of the room. The home he and his wife occupied was an older one, far away from his previous residence - he had severed all ties to that life, barring his dog, and his occasional contact with Missis Hudson, whom he had allowed to retire early directly before all his things had been cleared from the house. He left everything else be, keeping the door to his deceased companion's room closed and locked from the outside. He only hoped that whoever took up residence in it wouldn't get meddlesome.

The clock read quarter to twelve, and Watson knew he should be retiring for the night, but he could not bring himself to rise from his chair. He stared at the type writer before him, placed at the center of his desk. The conclusive words would forever be marred by that dreadful mistake he did not even remember making - the question mark that made it seem as though there was still hope for another chapter. There wasn't, of course. It was all wishful thinking, really.

But a few moments later, there came a knock on the door. It was a quiet sort of announcement of a presence, not intended to wake the whole house. Watson himself would not have heard if not for the placement of the room in which he sat: directly beside the foyer, as it was. He glanced at the window off to his right, saw that it had started to rain, and slowly stood, resignedly making his way out to the door before the knocking increased in volume. He kept the chain on the door and opened it just a crack, peering out into the night.

On the doorstep stood a unkempt man, filthy looking and in need of some new clothes, his own long since threadbare. Over his eyes he wore a pair of tinted glasses, the lenses cracked in quite a few places and the arms that stretched over his ears bent. His face was unshaven, dark hair down to his chest, where a pair of thin forearms were crossed in a way that plainly informed Watson that the man was rather cold, drawn also from the fact that he lacked a proper coat.

"May I help you, sir?" Watson queried kindly, quietly. There was no answer. Weighing the odds, he made a decision and said, "Hold on just a moment." Closing the door, he unhooked the chain that separated him from the outside world and opened the door in full, gesturing for the apparently homeless man to enter in, "Come in - you must be freezing."

Watson expected _something_, a murmur of thanks, a grunt even, but the man remained silent. _Perhaps he is a mute_...the doctor speculated, observing the way his new guest looked around at all that was within the foyer. A hand on his shoulder caused him to turn his attention to the home's dweller.

"Would you like a spot of tea, sir?" There was a nod of assertion. "Please do go into the room just beyond the doorway and have a seat, I'll be with you briefly."

Keeping up his professional manner just long enough to escape into the kitchen, Watson breathed deeply, having second thoughts due to the risks of letting unknown destitutes in at such late hours. Nonetheless, he continued on as he said he would, and made a cup of tea for the visitor, sitting the plain cup on a saucer and heading into the room that was used as his office of sorts. The man had planted himself awkwardly in a chair by the hearth, still as a stone when Watson crossed over the threshold.

Watson carefully handed over both the cup and saucer to his unsolicited guest, "There you are. This ought to warm you up."

The man's head had tilted downward, and from behind the fractured, tinted spectacles, his eyes could be perceived. They stared right at the doctor, unblinking and dark. Terror overtook Watson, his hand, still on the saucer, snapped away, causing the two pieces of china to crash to the floor, shattering and sending tea everywhere. He backpedaled, resisting the urge to double over and wretch; his blood had suddenly run cold.

"Oh...oh my God..." he whispered, not believing anything anymore, "This is not real...Christ Jesus this is not real..." Finally, he allowed himself to look at the man in the chair again, and he produced a single, horror-stricken word, "Holmes?"

Slowly, ever so slowly, a hand rose to the glasses and plucked them off. The other hand took hold of the end of the beard, tugging firmly until it pealed away. And all at once, there was Sherlock Holmes, in the flesh. Very much alive and aware of where he was and who he had just fooled with his masquerade.

"Hello, Watson," he said conversationally, as if he had been in a normal situation, "you look a bit unwell, whatever do you put into that tea of yours?" He shook his index finger lightly and _tsked_ his former counterpart, but then stopped and studied the other man with an incredulous look on his continence, "Then again, perhaps its the weather..."

Watson's straight posture lessened considerably, his breath coming in short spurts, "How are you here? How...I mean..._how_?"

"Repetition neither suits you nor does it disparage you, my good fellow, but might I ask you the same question?" Holmes looked around the room dramatically, still showing none of the emotion his friend was displaying all too clearly, "You moved in nicely I see."

"Of _course_ I did, you bloody idiot!" starting to shake, Watson lowered himself into a chair of his own and held his head in his hands, "How could I stay there...?"

The living detective canted his head to the side. "Are you quite finished with this theatrical presentation of yours? You mustn't be troubled so, it makes me feel as though I just got run over by a freight train."

"You very well should after all I've gone through!" Watson nearly shouted, but feared what would happen if he roused any more attention. "Just tell me how you did it! Spare me the feigned obviousness and the useless analyzing and at least give me the courtesy of telling me..._how_."

One of Holmes' eyebrows shot up, "Why, my dear Watson, whatever are you talking about?"

"Stop that! I'm asking you, as a friend, to tell me how you managed to survive that fall!" Watson grew desperate, his will to understand growing.

"As much as I would be honored to answer a question you have posed many times already in the few minutes we have been sitting her, it is not to off topic, to ask you if all is well? You _do_ seem a bit below your usual par...perhaps I should fetch your lovely wife, is she about?"

Sitting there, dumbfounded beyond reason, Watson truly did not know what to say to Sherlock Holmes. There was nothing that could elucidate what exactly he was experiencing emotionally, nothing that could bring him solace about what he was seeing with his own two eyes until his question, which was being purposely avoided, was dealt with. He gave Holmes a good, long look, tempted to walk over and give him a solid blow to the face just to see how real he actually was, but that would be out of line, even in the heat of the moment. Not that the smug man didn't deserve it though for treating him as if he hadn't been away for months.

Holmes went on, "Now, what was this you were asking me? Ah yes, how I managed to...what was it? "Survive a fall" or something along those lines? Frankly, Doctor, I have no idea as to what you mean, but judging by your display of hysterics when you saw through my disguise, a clever one I might add, one would know you feel adamantly about this certain..._misfortune_." Again, there was another weighty pause. "Are you eating properly? I know I have had trouble with that prospect in the past, mind you, but you are certainly - "

" - as thin as a rail?" Watson mumbled, no humor at all in his voice, only grief, "You are the one that caused it if it is so..."

"I was only going to say _fit_ - but in a rather bad way."

A feminine voice came from the darkened doorway, "John? Is everything well, John?"

Watson and Holmes both looked in unison. There stood Mary, looking in at her husband. When she saw Holmes she smiled courteously. Watson's mouth opened wordlessly in dismay. How could she not be as astonished, if not more so then he?

"Good evening, Sherlock," she greeted, "isn't it a bit late for a visit?"

Holmes took the tattered hat from atop his head habitually. "No madam, a visit to your dear husband is never amiss. Might I offer my congratulations on be ridding yourself of your pesky step mother?"

She was surprised, but laughed softly, "Your enlightenment on how you determined that will have to wait, I'm afraid. I only wanted to assure myself that John was not with someone unfriendly."

"Or another woman I might add," Holmes stated, "which reminds me - "

"_Enough_!" The frenzied exclamation startled Mary, but Holmes merely deadpanned. Watson stood to his feet, throwing his hands into the air. "What is this about? What is wrong with you both?"

Mary stepped further into the room, "John, what's the matter?"

"I'll tell you what is the matter!" he raged, stabbing a finger at Holmes, "_He_ was dead! I _saw_ him plummet to his death off a balcony with a sociopath! I made _certain_ that they searched every inch of the water below for the body, but they found none, because it was_ washed_ _away_ in the current! And now, out of _nowhere_ he appears on our doorstep, Mary, only to scare me half to death when he cannot answer a single bloody question I ask him!"

Tears streamed down his wife's face, and when he swiped a hand across his own, he found that such had been present upon his as well. Holmes coughed gracelessly into his closed fist, silent for once in his life.

Mary closed her eyes, and in a small, quiet voice she said, "John, my dearest John, Sherlock has been here, in London, since early this year. Recall that he helped us move into our new home? He did not want you to leave, but you thought it best, so he assisted us." She sobbed and Holmes took up the task of comforting her when Watson did not, giving her a shoulder - albeit a discomfited and ill at ease one - to cry on.

Watson's eyes had widened by this point, his bodily shaking reaching new heights of intensity. He had long since quieted down. He could not control his own thoughts any longer.

"What you've been saying..." Mary returned her attention to him, "What you've been saying is not true, John."

Watson looked to his best friend for help, but the man who was supposed to be dead offered only a blank stare, deep brown eyes filled with more sadness then he had ever seen.

"But...tonight at dinner, you mentioned - you mentioned how I missed him." He added this in one final endeavor to try and make it all better.

"You were in this room all day, John. You did not come to dinner."

Quickly did Watson go to his type writer, praying with all that he had that there would still be a constant for him to cling to. The question mark - the mistake - something that would be the same. He stared down at the page still in the typing machine, and the tiny fragment that was left of his spirits dropped.

There was no question mark.

He was a broken, unstable man.

**A/N: In case it wasn't clear enough, Doctor Watson clearly lost his mind. Do tell me what you think, and ask questions if you wish. I will be very happy to answer them to the best of my ability.**


End file.
